Living With Loss
by r4ven3
Summary: Beginning in the aftermath of Danny Hunter's death, this fic is told in a series of hidden scenes which follows Ruth as she deals with each of her Section D colleagues who sacrifice their lives to the job. While each chapter stands alone, there is also a story arc for Ruth and Harry, as they develop a ritual together to deal with the deaths of their friends.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: This story – in 8 chapters and an epilogue – is a series of hidden scenes, set after each of the deaths Ruth experiences during her time in Section D. I have attempted to keep the characters IC, and to respect the canon story which flows either side of these scenes.**_

_**[There may appear to be some similarities between this and NatesDate's latest fic, `What Comes After'. NatesDate and I developed our stories separately, but at the same time, and we have discussed our stories, and are each aware of the similarities ... and the differences.]**_

* * *

**~ Danny ~**

(between 3.10 & 4.01)

* * *

His conversation with the police over, Harry turned to see Ruth still standing beside the dead man's body, touching and caressing his face, like a mother comforting her distressed child. There was something about the image of the two of them – live woman grieving beside dead man in a body bag – that sent chills through him. He was worried about Ruth. This was her first experience of a colleague's death, and the dead man was Danny – more than a colleague …... a friend, an admired and respected confidante. He'd died saving the life of another colleague, herself a wife and mother.

Harry stepped quietly to her side, placing a comforting hand on the small of her back while the body bag was again zipped, the face of Danny Hunter now forever a memory.

"Come with me, Ruth. My driver will take you home."

Her eyes followed Danny's body as it was lifted into the helicopter …... now out of sight, soon to be taken to a city morgue.

"But …... Danny," she said, her voice on the edge of tears. "Who will …...?"

"His family …... his Mum and Grandma …... they'll meet him at the other end. He'll not be alone."

Ruth turned to look at him for the first time, and nodded her head. When they reached the limousine, Harry opened the back door, and stood aside as she climbed in.

"You'll come with me, Harry?" she said once she sat on the far side of the back seat. "I don't want to be alone."

So he climbed in beside her. She needed him more than he needed to be back on the Grid with the others. Fiona was visibly traumatised, but she had Adam. The Grid would have to do without him for a while. Adam would be driving Fiona home, and Ruth had no-one to comfort her.

The car slid noiselessly through the traffic, and Harry kept an eye on Ruth, her head resting against the window on her side her eyes staring at the cityscape as it whizzed by. Harry Pearce was good at most things, but comforting a woman in distress was not among the things at which he excelled. The emotional life of women was for him another country, one he had visited, but had always left before he'd had a chance to figure it out. He liked women a lot, had loved several, but had never felt at ease within the peculiar and unpredictable feeling life women inhabited.

When the car pulled up outside Ruth's house, Harry quickly got out, and walked around to her side to open the door.

"I'll walk you inside, Ruth," he said quietly, indicating with a nod of his head that his driver could leave.

Ruth said nothing. When they reached the door, he took her keys from her hand, and opened the door, closing it behind them as they entered the hallway.

"You don't have to do this," she said at last, her eyes pools of sadness as she looked up at him.

"You go and turn on the fire, while I make us some tea," was his only reply.

Harry took off his coat, and his jacket, and made them a pot of tea. He hadn't eaten in a while, so he found some biscuits, and arranged them on a plate.

In the sitting room, Ruth had removed her coat and her scarf, and had turned on the gas fire. Had they not lost one of their own that day, the two of them alone in that cosy sitting room, with tea and biscuits, may have been cause for anticipation …... or embarrassment. Harry was not sure which would have suited he and Ruth. She was a brilliant analyst, but she was still an enigma as a woman, and he found this intriguing.

They sat over their tea in near silence, the only sound being made by Harry breaking a ginger nut with his teeth.

"How do you do it, Harry?" she asked at last.

They were sitting across from one another on opposite sides of the fire, he in an armchair, and she in a two-seater. Harry looked up to see her eyes on him.

"How do I do what?"

"Deal with it. You've been dealing with the deaths of colleagues for years now. How do you go on?"

"I don't have a choice," he said quietly.

"You always have a choice."

"Someone has to do what we do, otherwise the world descends into chaos."

"The world is already in chaos, Harry. We lose a loved and trusted colleague, and we all turn up for work next day. It's obscene."

"No, Ruth, it's not obscene. We turn up tomorrow out of respect for Danny. We keep going …... otherwise his sacrifice is meaningless. He sacrificed himself …... for Fiona. He gave his life so that she could live, and bring up her child."

When Ruth didn't reply, he looked up from his tea, to see that Ruth was crying silently, tears rolling down her cheeks to her chin. Prior to this day, he would have found an excuse to leave …... a meeting he was already late for, a need to boost morale back at the Grid, a report he had to have written before he was free to go home. He would return to the Grid tonight, but not yet. Ruth was important to him. She had become indispensable to him at work, and he owed her this hour or two.

_Real men cry,_ Jane used to say to him. _ How is it you can't cry, Harry? Where is your heart? Do you even have one? _

Ruth was saying one phrase over and over, "He was just a boy. He was just a boy."

Harry put down his cup, stood up, and moved across the space between them to sit next to Ruth on the two-seater. He touched her shoulder with his hand, and she turned towards him then, and buried her face in his shoulder. The only thing left for him to do was to slip his arm around her and hold her. His hold on her was loose. He was her boss, and he didn't want her to get the wrong idea. All the same, he could detect a light whiff of her perfume, and her hair tickled his chin. The sensation was not unpleasant.

"Danny wasn't a boy, Ruth. He was a man. Only a man could have acted with such courage."

"What about his family? His mother and grandmother?"

"They'll be broken for a while, maybe for a long time, but in time they'll come to terms with it. The sad thing is that they'll never know what a brave man their son and grandson was."

Ruth sobbed against his shoulder, and Harry held her there with his arm around her, his hand resting on her back. Rather than feeling awkward and out of his depth, he began to feel strong, and comforting, and …... useful. Yes …... he was sure that being here with Ruth was the right thing to be doing. He was of more use here with her, than at the Grid with the others, offering platitudes and empty words, knowing that they were all gutted by what had happened that day, and nothing he could say would make that better.

After around ten minutes, Ruth sat up, and wiped her eyes. She stood up and mumbled something about needing to find a tissue. Harry wondered whether he should leave. The crisis was over. Ruth seemed to no longer need him. He stood, and was about to put on his jacket when she came back into the room.

"You're leaving?" she asked.

"I thought I'd give you some space."

"I don't want you to go, Harry. Can you stay a little longer?"

So he sat down next to her, and they each turned to face the other.

"Death is so random. I can't believe that Danny won't be at work any more. I'll miss him terribly."

"We'll all miss him."

"Danny was a good man."

"Yes, he was. A little over-confident at times, even cheeky on occasion, but he was a good man."

"And he had very good dress sense."

"He did indeed," agreed Harry, trying not to smile, remembering Danny's appreciation of nice things.

Ruth rubbed her hand under her chin. "Does it get any easier, Harry? After a few more people die, does it get easier to live with?"

Harry looked into her sad, beautiful eyes, and shook his head. "No, it doesn't get easier. It's like anything shocking which happens over and again. You get better at pretending that it doesn't matter as much as it does. You get better at hiding it."

"You're talking about burying your feelings, Harry."

"I am."

Ruth's eyes turned from pained to wise in a few seconds. "That's not good for you."

"I imagine you're right." For a moment, Harry thought of sharing with her Jane's words to him about him not having feelings, but that was too personal a tale for a boss to share with his employee.

"Harry ….."

"Mmm?"

"Do you think that Danny simply gave up? That with Zoe gone, and living with Will in South America, he thought …... why not?"

"No, Ruth, I don't. Having been in life and death situations myself, the will to live is a very powerful drive. No matter how wretched one's personal life, the will to survive is more powerful. I think that Danny did a very brave thing. I'm not sure I would have been that brave."

"I've no doubt had you been in his position, you would have done what he did, Harry."

"Thank you, Ruth. You have more faith in me than I deserve."

"You're a good man."

Harry smiled then. He hadn't smiled since he'd learned of Danny's death. "Thank you," he said quietly. He felt the tears then. They welled up in his eyes, and it was too late for him to turn away. Ruth had seen them, and she reached across and put her hand on his.

"It's alright to cry, Harry. I won't tell anyone."

Harry wiped his eyes with the back of his free hand. "I'm meant to be comforting you, Ruth, not the other way around."

"I hope we have provided comfort for each other."

Harry nodded, unable to speak. It had been a hard day to begin with, but it just got harder as the day progressed. He looked at the gas fire, and for a very brief moment in time wondered what it would be like to be the man in this delightful woman's life. As far as he knew, Ruth had no-one. He had no-one. Were things different – were he not her boss, were they not spies, were their jobs not so dangerous, had a loved and respected colleague not died that day – the day may have ended differently.

Harry rose from the couch before his thoughts took him into dangerous waters. He was tired, and distressed …... and vulnerable. Besides, Ruth seemed a lot better. She had comforted him, so it was time for him to go.

Ruth accompanied her boss to the front door. He seemed eager to leave.

"Thank you, Harry. For coming home with me."

He turned to look at her, a slight smile on his lips. "Get an early night, Ruth. You'll feel better in the morning."

"Will I?" What she wanted to say was: _How can I ever feel better with Danny gone? How can I concentrate at work, knowing I'll never see him again?_

"You will, I can assure you."

Harry put his hand on her arm, and lightly squeezed, before letting it drop to his side. _Too familiar, Harry. She's your employee …... never forget that._ The trouble was, he suspected she was already more to him than that.

"If you like," he said quietly, "you can travel with me in my car to the funeral service …... and we can sit together …. inside the church. I don't know about you, but I need the company."

Ruth nodded, unable to speak, knowing how much it had taken for Harry to make this suggestion. She would welcome his company, his unspoken support. Harry turned to walk down the path to the gate. He'd called his driver, but the car had not yet arrived. Ruth thought of calling him back until his car arrived, but Harry was a grown-up, used to looking after himself. He'd manage somehow. She closed the door.

Out of curiosity, Ruth didn't go straight back to the kitchen. She silently entered her front room, and pulled aside the curtain. Harry was sitting on her front fence, his head bowed, his arms folded, his hand propping up his forehead. His shoulders were shaking with sobs she couldn't hear. Harry had a few minutes before his car was due to arrive, and he'd chosen these minutes as his time to grieve.

Ruth allowed the curtain to drop closed, and she left him to it. Silently, she hoped he'd take his own advice, and have an early night.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews for Chapter 1. They were kind and encouraging, and I feel a little more confident about this story as a result. In some ways, writing this has taken me out of my comfort zone, which can only be a good thing!**_

* * *

**~ Fiona ~**

(4.07)

* * *

"Jo, it's not your fault. There's nothing you could have done. Men like Farook Sukkarieh get what they want." Ruth wasn't sure that she was right about Fiona's first husband. Adam had killed him in the end, but Jo needed reassurance.

"I'm not sure this is the right job for me."

"Jo …... you're good, you're a natural. Adam said so himself."

"And perhaps had I acted like an MI-5 officer, then Fiona Carter might still be alive."

"I doubt anything would have stopped Farook, Jo. Not even you."

Ruth looked up to see Harry watching her from his office. A slight tip of his head summoned her to his sanctum.

"Harry?" Ruth said, as she drew level with his desk.

"Shut the door, Ruth."

As she stepped back to the door, and slid it closed, Harry stood up from behind his desk, and poured two glasses of whiskey, and then he sat on the sofa against the wall. Ruth again approached his desk, unsure where she was expected to sit. Hesitation and embarrassment passed quickly across her face.

"I won't bite, Ruth. There's room for us both on this sofa." Harry patted the leather seat next to him, and so Ruth sat beside him, but with a distance between them, so that when they turned to face one another, their knees did not touch. He offered her the glass of whiskey, and she took it, cradling it in both her hands.

"Morale is low on the Grid," she said quietly. "Fiona's death has come too soon after ….."

"After Danny's, I know. How are you, Ruth?"

Ruth smiled down at her hands, still cradling the drink, still untouched. "You know, I was wondering, Harry …... does anyone ever ask you how _you_ are?"

She looked up at him then, her eyes on his. He held his glass only a few inches from his lips, about a take a sip, and then he stopped, his eyes registering the audacity of Ruth's question. Those who dared ask how he was never received a straight answer. His glass continued its journey to his lips, and he took a large gulp.

"Not if they value their life," he said, after he'd swallowed the liquid.

_Oh, so that's the way it would be this time_, she thought. All bluster and macho bullshit. Soft Harry, _real_ Harry had left the building. Ruth sighed, and took a small sip. After all, it had only just gone midday. She could do with something to take the edge off, to help her forget that another one of them had died only the day before.

"I don't think Adam's told Fiona's parents …... or Wes."

"I heard the same thing," he said quietly, putting his empty glass on the small table beside the sofa. "You haven't answered my question, Ruth."

"I must be hardening," she replied quickly. "I feel …... very little, aside from anger."

"Anger is normal enough."

Ruth smiled down at her glass. Harry the counsellor. _Physician heal thyself_. Tom Quinn had hit the nail squarely on the head the day he'd said that to Harry.

"I'm angry with Fiona," Ruth said.

"Why?"

Harry leaned forward and took the glass from Ruth's hands, afraid that she'd spill the contents on to the carpet. She barely noticed that it was no longer in her hands. She picked at her sleeve with her fingers. Harry watched her busy fingers, as active as her mind.

"It was always a risk that she'd come to a sticky end, given her love for field work," he said. "She was good at it, too. I suppose you're thinking of Wes."

Ruth sat up straight, and looked Harry in the eye.

"There's that, of course, but I wasn't thinking of Wes and Adam." Ruth picked at an imaginary spot on her skirt. "I'm thinking about Danny. Danny gave up his life so that Fiona could live, so that she could be with Adam, and that together they could bring up their son."

Harry nodded. He understood her, of course. He'd thought the same thing, but would never be so crass as to say the words aloud. Danny Hunter gave his life so that Fiona Carter could live hers – with her family. And then she threw it away. It was too late to be thinking like that. It was too late to be judging the decisions made by a woman now dead.

"Danny only had his mother and his grandmother, and a few uncles and aunts. He hadn't a family like Fiona had Adam and Wes." Ruth could feel her anger rising. "Fiona going into that …... that hornet's nest was …... it was disrespectful to Danny, Harry."

"I believe that she went back into that hornet's nest, as you call it, with the full intention of killing Farook, so that she and Adam and Wes would be safe, and so that they could live their lives without always having to look behind them."

"Well, she went about it the wrong way. She took too many risks. It was doomed from the start."

"Ruth …... Fiona needed to be free to do it her way. It could just as easily turned in her favour. She almost made it, too. She had no need to thank Danny for her life. That was his decision, and what she then did with her life had nothing to do with Danny."

Harry reached out and put his hand on her arm. It was as though he had touched her with an electric cattle prod.

"Don't patronise me, Harry! I know how this works. I've heard you say it before. We have no friends in the service – just colleagues we'd die for. Well, that is total bullshit! We become friends through our proximity to one another, and through shared struggles and experiences, and such friendships mean something. Everyone here -" and Ruth swept her hand around her to take in all the Grid personnel "- is a friend …... and that includes you, Harry. I class you as a friend …... a good friend, a close friend."

"But we never socialise, Ruth. We're only friends inside these walls. That's what colleagues are."

Ruth knew what to expect from Harry for the remainder of this encounter. This was right-Harry, Boss-Harry, implacable-Harry, according-to-the-book-Harry. This was not the man she considered her friend. This was not the same man who had travelled with her in the back of a car to Danny's funeral, and sat beside her in the church, keeping an eye on her, caring for her, being her friend ... rapidly becoming her closest friend.

Ruth stood, and was about to leave. She had work to do.

"Sit down, Ruth. You're upset."

"You're damned right I'm upset. When do you get to lose it, Harry? When do you get angry? Do you ever express outrage over anything other than long-winded politicians, corporate greed, and the blatant arrogance of the US administration? Do you ever ask why it is young women with children put themselves in mortal danger?"

"Yes," he said quietly, his eyes again on hers, but this time they were velvet-soft and sad.

Ruth sat down, but this time she sat ever-so-slightly closer to Harry.

"You're not to breathe a word of this to anyone, Ruth. What we say to one another in here is strictly between you and me."

Ruth nodded. "I'd quite like my drink back, please."

She detected a small smile on his lips as he reached for her glass, and handed it back to her. "Don't drink it all at once," he said.

Ruth took a decent swig this time, and then let the alcohol slide slowly down her throat. She had an idea of why Harry relied on it so much. It soothed and it warmed, it comforted, but most of all it anaesthetised.

"I grieve for everyone who dies on my watch, Ruth, but I have to do that in private. I do get angry, and I …. grieve normally, just like anyone else."

"I know."

"What do you mean?"

"The day Danny died and you took me home. When you left, I saw you while you waited for your car to arrive. I saw you through my front window. You were crying for Danny."

"So you see …... contrary to popular belief, I am not made of stone."

"No, you're not. _If you prick us, do we not bleed?_"

"I hope you don't see me as Shylock, Ruth."

"Not all the time." Ruth dared a small smile as she looked up at him.

She took another sip of her drink. She was enjoying it. She was enjoying being in the office with Harry. At last, she felt safe and just right in his presence. The impasse had been negotiated. They had made it past another roadblock.

"I'd better get back to work," she said, handing him her empty glass.

He rose with her, and nodded, watching her as she walked to the door, and out of his office. He sighed heavily as the door closed behind her, leaving the air a little colder in the space where only seconds ago she had been.

* * *

_**A/N:**__** Shylock's quote is from `The Merchant Of Venice', by Wm. Shakespeare.**_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Things went a little strange in this chapter. I hope it still works.**

* * *

**~ Colin ~**

(5.01)

* * *

Malcolm had only just managed to turn his face into a grimace, the nearest he could to the smile Adam had demanded of him. If Adam was capable of smiling at Fiona's killers, then he – Malcolm – would have to smile at Colin's killers. If that's what it took to take on these monsters, then he would do it. Colin deserved at least that. He hoped he'd never be tested in the real world, because smiling at them would be the last thing on his mind. Deep inside himself where he was being honest, he wanted to hurt them badly. He wanted them to suffer as Colin must have suffered. He wanted revenge.

After Adam had come back into the den, explaining that Wes' new baby-sitter had just arrived, the four remaining people – Malcolm, Zaf, Ruth and Harry – took the opportunity to leave.

"You'll come back to the Grid with me, Ruth," Zaf said, sidling up to her on the footpath outside the apartment block where Adam and Wes lived, matching her smaller steps with his own.

"No," said a deep voice from behind them, "she's coming with me."

"Harry," Ruth said, turning to face him, "we -"

"We have a tradition to fulfil, Ruth. You're coming with me."

Ruth had no wish to speak about another dead colleague, especially with Harry, and especially in the confined space of his car. To avoid an altercation, though, she turned and followed him to his car.

"What did I do?" Zaf said to Malcolm.

"You're not Harry," the older man replied.

* * *

In Harry's car, both he and Ruth were silent, as he guided the car through the dark streets, his eyes on the road. Ruth was mildly annoyed with him for his high-handedness.

"Harry – I didn't appreciate -"

"Ruth." Harry's voice was firm, and it stopped her in mid-sentence.

So she kept silent, hoping he would as well. When he turned off the road on to a side road which passed close by the river, Ruth knew he had something in mind. Finding a parking space on the river side of the road, Harry stopped the engine, and sat back in his seat.

"I'm too angry to talk, Harry. I have no thoughts, no feelings, no pain about Colin. I'm spent. I've had my fill of death."

"I'm not parked here for your benefit, Ruth."

"What? What do you mean?"

She turned to look at him, and all she saw was his face in profile against the streetlights which lined the other side of the street. His jaw was set and grim. Ruth fought an urge to reach out and touch his cheek, to run her fingers along his jaw, to soothe his pain. He turned to face her, his eyes dark.

"I need to talk, Ruth. I need to talk with someone I trust, and the person I trust most is you. Will you listen?"

She nodded, but as a concession to her earlier thoughts, she put her hand on the edge of her seat closest to him. There were only a few inches between her hand, and his hand resting on the gear shift.

"I'm sorry about what Malcolm said to you earlier. You were only trying to help."

"No, he was right, Ruth. I was being a pompous arse. I'd underestimated how close Malcolm and Colin were. I'd tried to take over the meeting, when Adam was handling it well."

"Do you think he did?"

"Yes. Adam is still raw from Fiona's death. He knows better than the rest of us how it feels to lose someone close to them. Ruth …..."

Harry seemed to have something to say to her, something which rendered him awkward and uncomfortable. He took his hand from the gear shift, and turned to face her, placing the hand nearest her on the back of her seat, just beside her head. In turn, Ruth turned her body to face him, her hands clasped in her lap. There was something strangely intimate about their body language. His eyes sought hers.

"... I ….. this time …... Colin's death …... is all the more shocking because it was meant to be a safe and easy obbo, and he was not a field agent. He wasn't meant to be in danger. He was meant to have come back to us safely and alive, without a scratch. Instead, he was found without his glasses, his body hanging from the branch of a tree. I can't imagine how very frightening it must have been for him. Ultimately I have to claim responsibility for his death."

"Harry ….. you can't -"

"I can, Ruth, and I must. But …... but the worst thing about this, the thing I'm least proud of …... is that from around an hour after I learned of Colin's death, all I could think about is how relieved I was that it wasn't you at the end of that rope. It could easily have been you."

"But I haven't Colin's skills. It wouldn't have been me out there in that van."

"Perhaps not, but you have other skills, equally as invaluable."

Ruth hadn't expected this. He was telling her something more than that he was relieved she wasn't Colin. Harry rarely shared his feelings, other than through outbursts of anger. This was a different Harry. This was Harry venting a different kind of emotion.

"Harry, what's going on is so much bigger than just us. This is -"

"No, Ruth, let me speak. Not only do I claim responsibility for Colin being out there -"

"But you didn't send him. Adam did."

"The buck stops at my desk, Ruth. Not only am I ultimately responsible for another death on my team, but I'm also allowing my personal feelings to enter into my thinking about it."

"Are you confessing, Harry?"

"Yes …... yes, I suppose I am. I've chosen you because I know you'll judge me fairly."

"I really liked Colin," she said, an attempt to guide the conversation away from themselves. "I found him …... funny and clever... and kind."

"Nice try, Ruth, but I won't allow you to do that. I want to know what you think of what I told you."

"I can't give you absolution, Harry. I'm not a priest. All I can say is that I'm surprised by what you said, and that the only one currently judging you is yourself."

Ruth thought she noticed him moving closer to her, his body closing the gap between them. For a moment, she thought he was about to kiss her. She was surprised – and disappointed – when he didn't. She had begun spending a lot of time while at work watching Harry, and that had meant watching his beautiful lips. She sometimes wondered what they would feel like on her own …... and this was neither the time nor the place for thoughts such as these.

_He started this_, she told herself. _Harry was the one who began talking about being glad I wasn't the one killed today._

"Would you be saying the same thing were I Adam, or Malcolm, or Jo?"

"Of course not," he said, sitting back against the back of his seat. Her words had brought an ending to his intimate stance, and whilst Ruth felt relieved he was no longer so close to her, she was also sad.

"I can't -" she began, "I don't know what to say to that, Harry. I'm …..."

"I'm sorry, Ruth. I should have kept my private thoughts to myself. Forget I ever said it."

"Harry …..."

"Will you come in my car with me to the memorial service? It may be in a few weeks, after Colin's family have buried him."

"Of course, Harry …... and I'll sit with you during the service, if that's what you want."

Ruth was watching him carefully, as he focused his eyes on some point in the distance in front of the car. She'd embarrassed him, she knew that, and she didn't know how to make things better. Was it always going to be like this with Harry?

"Thank you," he said formally. "Only if you want to."

"I want to, Harry. I'll be sitting with you because I want to. And thank you for telling me what you brought me here to tell me. I hadn't known …... that."

"No, Ruth. I spoke out of turn."

Harry …..." Ruth again turned her body to face him. "Harry, look at me." He turned his head to her, and for the first time, she noticed the pain just beneath the surface of his calm expression. "I know you're hurting. I know you feel angry and powerless to change what has happened – to Danny, to Fiona, and now Colin – and I know that you're looking for something to take your mind off this -"

"Ruth, I'm -"

"No, Harry, now it's my turn to speak. I'll put aside what you said about being relieved I wasn't the one to die this time. I know that you wouldn't normally speak like that, so I'm explaining it by putting it down to the stress of Colin's death, and the on-going threat. If they're willing to do that to a man like Colin, a man who was no direct threat to them - no threat to anyone - then what else may they be capable of?"

"But I meant what I said."

"I know you did, Harry, and I'm …... I don't know how I really feel about it. I think I'm pleased, but …... I don't know what to feel about anything right now, and I think you feel that way too. We're in the middle of a crisis, a tornado, and our feelings are exaggerated and confused. We're at war, and we all feel vulnerable."

Harry took a deep breath and sighed, as he leant his head back against the headrest. "I heard Malcolm and Zaf talking about having a drink after Colin's memorial service to celebrate his life …... somewhere quiet and out of the way. I think I need to be there, too. Will you come with me?"

"Of course I will, Harry. We have to stick together at this time."

He turned to look at her in the darkened cabin of the car. Ruth saw a softness in his eyes that had not been there earlier.

"We'd better get back, then," he said, sitting up to put on his seatbelt, and turn on the car's ignition.

Harry turned to look at her again, and she smiled at him. She wasn't quite sure what had happened while they were sitting in the half-dark in his car, only a few yards from the river, but she felt better for it, and he looked better also. He seemed calmer, and less tense, less pained. He smiled back at her, and then took his attention to the road as he guided the car out, and headed back towards the Grid.


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: There was a brief scene between H & R – while sitting on a bench by the Thames - early in 8.04 re Jo's death in which Harry had wanted to talk to Ruth about Jo. This hidden scene occurs the evening before.**_

* * *

**~ Jo ~**

(between 8.03 & 8.04)

* * *

Harry had tried several times to ring Ros, but each time his call had gone to voicemail. He was concerned about Ros, but knowing her, she'd have her own coping mechanisms …... no doubt involving alcohol. At this moment, he was more concerned for Ruth. She had not taken the news of Jo's death at all well, but nor had he expected her to. Apart from himself, Jo had been the only real connection to her time before she'd had to leave after Cotterdam. What was worse, he had not handled her response well. He had treated her like an employee, and had allowed her to leave his office, and to cry alone against the wall outside the door. He had heard her, and to his shame, had done nothing to comfort her. _Welcome back to MI-5, Ruth._ He'd kept telling himself that he wasn't good at dealing with women's emotions, but what he'd really meant was that he wasn't good at dealing with his own. And it was too soon after George's death, and Ruth had only recently learned of the deaths of Adam and Zaf. He imagined Ruth frantically questioning the wisdom of her coming back to work at Section D.

_Come on, Harry, act!_

He got up from his chair, where he'd sat for the past fifteen minutes since Ruth had left his office, shocked and stunned and empty, and he stepped outside his office door. Ruth was no longer there, and looking across the Grid, she was not there either, and although her bag was still beside her desk, her coat had gone. That meant she had left the Grid, but had not left the building.

Harry climbed the stairs to the roof door, and silently stepped on to the roof. Ruth stood huddled in a corner, close to the balustrade. For a moment he thought of leaving her there to work it out on her own, but then he remembered that this woman had been having to work things out on her own for several years now, and the death of her partner only weeks before had left her alone again. She needed someone, and whilst she may not have wanted _him_ to be her `someone', in spite of his earlier behaviour, he still cared deeply for her. While he was alone in his house late at night, he admitted to himself that he still loved her, and perhaps always would. When, in his private moments, he imagined himself with someone, living with her, loving her, it was always Ruth. To give up his solitude for anyone else was unthinkable.

Harry quietly crossed the space to stand beside her – close, but not too close. It took all of his considerable self-control for him to not put his arm around her, and pull her against him. He glanced quickly at her profile, and was surprised to see that she was smiling.

"I was just thinking of something Jo once said to me about Adam. She had been recruited by Adam on the strength of his personality and his charm. She said that all the best men were already taken, but in Adam's case, only a woman like Fiona could tame him. Jo described him as a wild animal trapped inside the skin of a kitten."

Harry sighed, with relief, as much as anything. He'd expected her to be angry; he'd expected her to be crying; he'd expected her to be shut down. What he hadn't expected was for her to be in the mood for reminiscing.

"You know, Harry, during these past few years I've seen enough death to be almost immune to the loss of another."

"How did you know it was me …... here, beside you?"

She turned to look at him then, and he could see the redness in her eyes, and the end of her nose was raw from her having blown it over and over. She looked away from him before she spoke. "Your footfall is unique, and besides, I could smell you. You have a particular scent. Everyone does."

"Not unpleasant, I hope."

"No, not at all. I'd know you anywhere. Even in the dark." Her last sentence was spoken so quietly he'd wondered whether she'd said it at all.

Harry felt his pulse rate increase, but this was not the time nor the place for intimacies.

"Ruth, I'm sorry about -"

"I know you are, Harry."

"I sent her in there. I told her – ordered her – to go down into the panic room. Her death is on my conscience. I'm so sorry this happened on your first day back …... especially with it being Jo."

"I know you are, Harry. And I know you find this difficult."

"This?"

"Apologising. Owning up. Talking to me in this way."

"Not at all, Ruth. This is part of what I do. What I can't do, however, is turn back the clock."

"No, you can't. No-one can."

Harry looked across at her, but she was staring out at the city, as though taking it in, breathing it in, getting her fill of it after having been away for so long. Perhaps she was also wondering how far back he wished to be able to turn the clock …... 24 hours? 4 weeks? 3 years?

"You were magnificent today, Ruth. Without you we wouldn't have made the connection with the Russian. I don't know how we ever coped for so long -"

"Harry, please don't. I know I'm good at what I do, and I know you and I work well together. We have before …... and we did today. But today was …..."

"Today was horrific, but it could have been far worse."

"It was only Jo we lost is what you're saying."

"That's not what I'm saying."

For the first time in the minutes since he'd stepped next to her, Ruth look up at him. What she saw was Harry weary, drained, and holding in his grief.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I'm just upset. About a lot of things, really."

"Do you want to talk about that?"

"No. I don't see the point. Talking won't bring George back to life. It won't get me back my life in Cyprus. It won't bring my step-son back to me... and it won't bring back Jo from the dead."

Harry could hear the wavering in Ruth's voice. Put like that, she had lost so much, and all too soon. He wanted to make it better. He swallowed his own pain, having to do so without the aid of single malt.

"I'm so, so sorry you've had to live through these past few weeks, Ruth. I can't imagine -"

"Harry," she interrupted, "can we stop apologising to one another? I've spent far too long blaming you for far too many things. I've not been fair to you."

He waited, because he could tell from her expression that she had more to say. She let out a long breath, and her whole body seemed to diminish in size.

"I was wondering," she began, "who comforts you, Harry. You've sought me out after every death -"

"Other than George's."

"His wasn't your responsibility to appease. He wasn't one of us."

"No, but -"

"I no longer blame you for George. Let's leave it at that. I realise now that you had no choice."

Harry sighed heavily, hoping that Ruth truly meant what she had just said.

"Who comforts the comforter?"

Harry sighed again. He had no idea how to answer her question. Mrs Glenfiddich sounded trite, despite it being true.

"Apart from alcohol, I mean."

"I don't require comforting, Ruth."

"Everyone does." She turned to face him, her eyes blazing – with unshed tears, with anger, with pain. "You're not above raw human emotion, Harry. I've done little else other than cry these past weeks, but you …... you're always the same. You never waver."

Harry sighed heavily, and swallowed audibly. He found that he was biting his bottom lip as a way of holding himself together.

"Have you cried since Danny died?"

_Christ, she knows me too well._

"Yes."

"Fiona, right? And Adam and Zaf."

"For Adam and Zaf, yes, and there was one other time …. before that. That was when I cried for a long time, for someone I thought I'd lost forever."

Ruth took a few moments to absorb what he had said. "When I left?" she whispered.

"Yes. The night you left, I …..."

Without thinking about it, Ruth reached towards Harry, and placed her hand on his. She slid her fingers between his, and he so wanted to turn his hand the other way, so that their fingers could interlock …... but he didn't. Their hands rested together on the hand rail. It felt natural, and it felt right. Just for now, for this evening, they both required the comfort of the touch of another's skin. They had lost one another for too long, and given the events of the past few weeks, perhaps they were lost to one another forever.

Suddenly Ruth smiled.

"What?" he asked.

"If you can believe in life after death, I'll bet Jo's here right now, egging us on, trying to get us to …... well, you know what Jo would have wanted."

"Yes." Harry's smile could be heard in the one word. Jo had been a romantic, and she had been overly invested in he and Ruth being together …... in every way possible. And she had been overly interested in every little look, every touch, every nuanced interaction between them.

"She meant well, Harry."

"I know she did. She hadn't a nasty bone in her body."

"How is Ros doing?"

"I …... she's not answering her phone. I thought of visiting her, to check up on her, but I doubt she'd appreciate that."

"I agree. She'll want to be alone, I think."

"Yes."

They stood like that, her hand over his, her fingers resting between his, their forearms lightly touching, for a long time. It was cold out, but not uncomfortably so. The natural light had dimmed, and then faded completely, and the city lights took over, their glare softened by distance. Harry still longed to turn to her and hold her, but he knew she wouldn't want that, even though every cell in his body screamed for closer contact with her.

"Jo missed you while you were gone," Harry said quietly, realising how transparent was his statement.

"I know she did, Harry, and I know you did as well. I missed you all. More than you can possibly know."

He wanted to ask her how, if she had missed them so much, she could have so easily joined her life with another. He also knew it was too soon for that particular conversation.

"Ruth …... would you like to …... to come for a drink with me? Now? It doesn't have to be a drink drink ….. it can be coffee, or …..."

The words were out before he knew he had spoken too soon. Through the connection of her hand on his, he felt her body stiffen, and then she removed her hand from his, and stepped slightly away from him. His hand suddenly felt cold, and he felt his heart drop – _again_ – and he steeled himself for her rejection – _again_.

"Harry, I …... I think it's too soon for …... for that -"

"I thought we could talk about Jo …... somewhere it's not so cold. I have no ulterior motive."

"I know you don't, but …... Harry, I need time before …... before anything changes. I've had to deal with so much change these past few weeks. I'm not myself yet. I wouldn't be terribly good company."

"Well, tomorrow then. Can we talk about Jo tomorrow, when we've both had a chance to sleep on it?"

"Tomorrow then. Goodnight, Harry," she said, and without looking at him again, she turned away from him, and quickly left the roof through the door to the stairs.

Harry watched her until she was out of sight, and then he turned towards the city and took a deep breath, followed by an equally long exhale. It had been a shitty day, and now it was even shittier. Had he not asked Ruth for a drink, and then received her rejection, the day may have been slightly less shitty …... and he still had a report to write on the day's events.

"You know Ruth and I as well as anyone, Jo," he said aloud, but quietly. "Is there any hope? For us?"

He stood still for a long time, but the air around him remained the same. There was no unexplained breeze, or pocket of cold air. Jo wasn't there on the roof with him. She was lying cold and still and pale in a city morgue, another young life wasted, sacrificed to queen and country.

Harry sighed again, and took a few minutes to bring his shattered emotions under control. He still had to write that report. He waited another ten minutes, feeling cold and alone, and then went inside. When he reached the Grid, Ruth had already left.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: I've taken a few liberties in this chapter, given this scene takes place shortly before 9.01 – and that weird marriage proposal – and so I hope it is still IC.**_

_**And thank you to those who are continuing to review.**_

* * *

**~ Ros ~**

(after 8.08)

* * *

Ruth couldn't bear not knowing. She took a taxi – a rare extravagance – and when she reached the site of the hotel bombing, she paid her fare, got out, and wandered around, looking for Harry. There were police and rescue workers everywhere. Harry had told her not to come, that he'd be busy, but she couldn't stay away. The Home Secretary was presumed dead. Ros Myers was presumed dead. Harry would need her.

Ruth wandered around outside the police tape, knowing that Harry would be somewhere within the boundary of that tape. Were she to use her security pass to cross over, Harry would no doubt tell her to go home. No …... more could be achieved by waiting patiently, than by pushing through and attempting to force her hand. Eventually she saw him, talking to a group of policemen, with several reporters with recording devices hovering close by. Harry wouldn't want to be filmed, but no doubt he'd be quoted. Ruth wondered what he would say. No doubt he'd use words like `regrettable', `unthinkable', `devastating', and `a sad day'. His body language spoke of his weariness, and of him being resigned to (again) facing the death of another one of his team. Ruth was overcome by a wave of love and compassion for Harry. She wanted to step over the police cordon, hurry to him, gather him to her, and hold him close, pulling his head down to rest on her breasts. She wouldn't, of course. She and Harry were not people who made public gestures of love. They held themselves and their feelings close to their chests, only very occasionally allowing the lid which boxed their emotions to lift slightly, while a furtive intimate look, or a touch of a hand fluttered out unchecked.

Ruth stood just outside the police tape, watching Harry until the sun moved closer to the horizon. People walked by slowly and silently, placing bouquets of flowers in a row just outside the police cordon.

It was twilight before he looked up and saw her. He strode towards her, and in the minute or so it took him to reach her, Ruth was able to watch how he walked – quickly, strongly, and with purpose – and how set his face was. She knew him well enough to know he was hurting deeply, and that the day's events had exhausted him.

"I thought I told you not to come," he said when he reached her.

"When have I ever done what you told me?" she asked, her lips curved in a smile.

He grimaced at that, pursing his lips in a way that drew her eyes to those lips. She sighed heavily, and then looked down at the ground. "I thought you could do with some company," she said, raising her eyes to his.

He'd been closely scrutinising her face, and she noticed his eyes on her lips. _Oh, how we give ourselves away,_ she thought.

When he said nothing more, she added, "We have a tradition now, Harry. We have to keep it."

"Or what? Disaster will befall us? I think it's a bit late for that."

Ruth reached out a hand to him, and he took it, surprising both of them. He stepped over the tape, his hand still in hers, and they walked along the rubble-strewn footpath, away from the hotel, itself a bombed out shell. They dropped their hands as they crossed the street, and Harry lightly placed his hand across her back. Neither spoke, and yet they both knew that they were headed towards the small pub on the corner, two city blocks away …... not The Herald Arms, all glitz, hidden lighting, red leather and chrome, where all the journalists and disaster-watchers would gather. There was a small and intimate pub just around the corner from there, and that's where Harry and Ruth were headed.

"What would you like to drink?" Harry asked her as they stepped into the darkness of the pub lounge. The after-work crowd were leaving, and only a few single men held up the bar, while there were more tables empty than occupied.

"A white wine, thanks," she said, knowing that she was expected to choose a table for them. She found one at the back of the room, away from other patrons, where the lighting was dim, but it would still be possible to see the expressions on the face of one's companion.

Once she was seated, she looked across at Harry, and noted how baggy his clothes appeared on him, like the day's events had sucked some of the life out of him. _His job is slowly killing him,_ she thought. He turned towards her, carrying their drinks in his hands, hers a glass of white wine, his a single malt whiskey neat.

"Thank you, Harry," she said, taking a much needed sip of her wine. She looked up at him to see him watching her, his eyes full of …... was it love? They were soft, and there was no hint of pain or malice, or even tiredness, and yet Harry must have been exhausted.

"I'm sorry, Harry. Today was horrific, especially for you."

"It's worse for the families of those who died," he said, his face again becoming blank, the emotion hidden behind his section head mask.

"Do you want me to accompany you when you visit Jocelyn Myers?"

"No, Ruth. That's something I have to do on my own." He looked up at her, then, his eyes showing the pain he was trying hard to suppress. He smiled gently, his eyes softening. "Thank you for offering, though."

Ruth nodded across at him. "I don't know what to say to you, Harry. I want to make it better for you, but …..."

"You being here with me is enough." Harry looked around him, and noticing that some people were eating, he again looked at Ruth. "Would you like something to eat, Ruth? It seems to be dinner time."

"I don't think I could, but thanks for asking. To eat food while others are suffering seems so ..."

"I know what you mean. I've lost my appetite for food. Just make sure I don't drink too much. Were you not here keeping an eye on me, I'd probably have to be poured into a taxi at the end of the night."

Ruth nodded at him, and then concentrated on his fingers. She loved his hands. They were strong, but sensitive hands, and right now – at that very moment – she wanted those hands to be on her skin. She longed for his hands to explore the skin hidden by her clothing. She knew what Harry needed at this moment, at the end of this hardest-of-all-hard days. He needed to lose himself in the oblivion of sex …... as did she. She felt herself breathe in deeply, in an attempt to bring her thoughts and her body responses under control. When Ruth lifted her eyes to meet Harry's, his were equally as open with yearning as she was sure were her own.

"Ruth," he said, reaching across the table to put his hand over hers, "we can't be thinking this way. Tonight will not be for us, as much as we might want it to be. Tonight is for …... for those who have left us."

Ruth had dropped her eyes to their hands, watching how gently Harry's thumb stroked the back of her hand …... and how erotic that gentle movement back and forth was …... soft, rhythmic, skin on skin. For a brief moment she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to feel him moving inside her. She had admitted to herself that she wanted him, and he had known what she was thinking. _Are none of my private thoughts free from his scrutiny? Obviously not._

"I'm sorry if I embarrassed you then, Ruth. I saw ….. how you were looking at me, and I was thinking the very same thing. I don't want …... _us_ …... to be like that."

"Like what?"

Harry looked down into his glass. "Needy. Desperate. Filling a need fed by grief and loss, destruction created by hate. It wouldn't be ... healthy."

"It might be better than nothing at all."

"I'd prefer to …... to wait …... until the right moment arrives. And it will."

"How will we know it's the right moment?"

"We'll just know …... I'm sure of it."

There was nothing she could say in reply. Their deepest desires had found their way to the surface, and Harry – typically – had spoken for them both, effectively putting out the fire which had smouldered between them.

They sat for long moments, each sipping their drinks, their free hands clasped across the table. It wasn't much, but it was better than going home alone... and it had to be better than angry and sad, desperate, empty sex.

"I've already spoken to the Home Secretary's father," Harry said at last, more a private musing than a sharing of information. "Now I know why Andrew Lawrence was so keen to please him. Montgomery Lawrence is a tough old sod, although he's probably not a lot older than I am."

"How did he take the news?"

"Very British. Stiff upper lip, polite, apologetic. He even apologised for his son being in the wrong place at the wrong time, in case his death had inconvenienced others."

"Poor Andrew."

"It doesn't mean his father didn't love him, Ruth."

"I know. He seemed so young."

"He was young. Too young."

Harry took a swig of his drink, emptying the glass. He stood, breaking the connection between their hands, and went to the bar to order another round of drinks. Ruth was still sitting over her first glass of wine, but he bought her a second one, placing it on the table in front of her.

"I assumed you'd want another."

"Thank you." Ruth circled her finger around the rim of her glass, and held her free hand close to her, so that Harry couldn't hold it. A part of her was angry with him that he was prepared to hold her hand, but was not prepared to have sex with her. What she didn't know was that he desperately wanted to make love to her, but not under these circumstances, not after such a terrible day. Were he on his own in the pub, and were he to have met a woman – a stranger – and had she invited him back to her bed, he would have gone with her. Oblivious, meaningless sex would have been fine with him - welcome, even - but he only ever wanted his first time with Ruth to be loving and gentle and meaningful. That night was not the right night for them. He hoped she understood, but he was too tired, too drained to explain it to her clearly.

"Lucas believes that Ros sacrificed her life trying to save Andrew. She could have got out in time, but she wasn't prepared to leave him on his own. We won't know for sure until their bodies are found, and that may take days."

Ruth nodded. Self-denial …... self-control …... sacrifice. The three S's of the service.

"There's sure to be a funeral service, or at least a memorial service. Will you …...?"

"Yes, I'll go with you, Harry, and I'll sit next to you. You know I will."

"Thank you," he said quietly, looking across the table at her, his eyes heavy with fatigue and sadness.

"Do you want to talk, Harry? About Ros?"

"I can't, Ruth. Not yet. It's ..." Harry shook his head, as though shaking out the cobwebs. "The people I most couldn't bear losing are you and my two children, but next to the three of you, I can't bear losing Ros." He took another large gulp of his whiskey, downing another glass. He stood, and lifted his eyebrows at Ruth in a question.

"I have enough here, thanks. I don't need another drink, but you go ahead."

Ruth enjoyed Harry's company, but these meetings after the death of a colleague were becoming harder and harder. Harry was turning deeper inside himself, and Ruth suspected that she was also. She was learning – by necessity – to block her emotions, and to compartmentalise her feelings. Happy feelings, safe feelings were allowed out, while pain, grief and anger had to be locked away. She knew that such practices were unhealthy.

Harry brought his drink back to their table, and sipped it slowly.

"Do you know why we meet like this, Ruth? Do you know what the purpose of this is?"

"I hope this is not another one of those rhetorical questions."

"No, Ruth. We get together – you and me – after someone dies so that we reconnect with the living, with someone we value and …..."

"And love." Ruth hadn't meant to use the L-word, but it had just slipped out. Of course she and Harry loved one another. It was one of those unspoken truths.

"Yes," he said, "and love. We have to connect with the living so that we can deal with the dying, the constant loss of colleagues ….. and without the dying taking us with them."

When Harry finished his drink, he offered to drop her home on his way back to the Grid. They sat in the back seat together, not touching, while Harry's driver manoeuvred the car through the quiet streets to Ruth's house.

Ruth turned to get out of the car on her side, when Harry put out a hand and rested it on her arm. She turned to find him leaning towards her. She wasn't sure whether he was about to kiss her, but she leaned closer to him, and their lips met somewhere in the middle. It was a gentle kiss, soft, careful, respectful, and rather loving.

"Good night, Harry," she said, as her lips left his.

"Good night, Ruth. I'll see you in the morning …... and thanks for tonight."

Ruth nodded, and stepped out of the car, slinging her bag over her shoulder while she stepped away from the car so that Simon could close the door behind her. To his credit, Simon had averted his eyes when she and Harry had kissed.

Ruth didn't turn around as she walked up her path to her front door. Her lips were still warm and buzzing from his kiss, and she knew Harry was watching her all the way, ensuring she got inside her house safely. She also knew that come tomorrow it will be as though tonight hadn't happened; she and Harry would go back to normal.

Once she was inside the house, Harry called to Simon that he was now ready to be driven back to the Grid. His time for reconnecting was over. He had still to deal with the deaths of two very significant people, and that could not be dealt with in just one night. He planned spending all night in his office.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: ….and I continue to take liberties with HR. Given they act so differently on the Grid to when they're alone, I thought perhaps this is not taking things too far.**_

* * *

**~ Lucas ~**

(late in 9.08)

* * *

Ruth had seen Harry return to the grid after Lucas had jumped off Enver Tower, but had not yet worked out whether she wanted to talk to him …... or not. She spent more time than usual in the Registry, and then had made herself a cup of tea on her way back. By the time she again sat down at her desk, Tariq was the only one still working at his desk, and Harry was nowhere to be seen.

"Have you seen him?" she asked Tariq.

Strangely (or not so strangely) Tariq knew who she was talking about. "I think he's up there," he said, his eyes looking upwards.

"We are talking about the same man, aren't we, Tariq? I don't mean Lucas."

"Lucas is dead, Ruth."

"I know that. I'm asking after Harry."

"And I said he's up there." Again Tariq's eyes lifted upwards.

_The roof! He's indicating the roof._ It was what death did to her. It made her think of what happens after death. She found it hard to truly believe in Heaven, although Tariq, being Muslim, probably did, which had led her to misunderstanding his gesture.

"Thanks," Ruth said, and grabbed her coat, slipping it on as she entered the pods. By the time she reached the door to the roof, she had buttoned her coat and pulled on her gloves. It would be chilly out tonight.

Harry was standing near the balustrade, moving slowly from one foot to the other, something he did to keep his feet from getting cold. He should wear thick woollen socks, she thought. She wondered if there would ever be a time when she didn't worry about Harry, and whether he was looking after himself.

Ruth stepped on to the roof, and walked towards him. He seemed to know she was there. He half-turned before he spoke.

"I didn't expect to see you up here."

"Do you want me to go?" Ruth replied.

Harry shook his head, and smiled down at her.

"It's been a terrible day," Ruth said, as a way of opening the door to a conversation. "I was harsh on you earlier. I'm sorry."

"So what changed?"

"I put myself in your shoes …... or more correctly, I imagined what I would do were you kidnapped, and I had access to Albany, and Lucas was holding you hostage and on an anaesthetic drip until I handed it over. I reasoned that I would have to hand over the weapon to save you."

"Why?"

"You're too important to the service …... to the country. Your very presence saves so many more lives than the weapon would destroy."

"Is that all?"

Ruth slipped her hand through Harry's arm, and rested her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow. Given she was wearing leather gloves, and his arm was covered by at least three substantial layers of fabric – five, if she took into account the lining of his coat and jacket - the gesture was not terribly intimate, but she hadn't intended it to be. She was aiming for conciliation.

"And you're too important to me," she added, puffs of water vapour filling the air in front of her face as she spoke.

She was sure she felt Harry step closer to her, and when his hand grasped the hand she'd hooked into his elbow, she allowed herself to lean against him, her head almost resting on his shoulder. Her arm was tucked between his arm and his body, and she absorbed his warmth.

"I never thought I'd be happy to learn of a colleague's death, but I'm ashamed to say that when we learned that it was Lucas who had died and not you, I was relieved …... and I'm not proud of that."

Harry turned his head to face her, and that is when she saw the cut above his eyebrow. What had looked like a scratch from across the Grid, from close-up appeared angry, raw and swollen. Ruth's mouth formed an `O', and she reached up to touch it with the fingers of her other hand. To her relief, Harry didn't pull away, but watched her face closely as she touched the wound lightly.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

He shrugged non-committally. "It's numb ….. the cold air anaesthetises."

Without thinking about it, or planning it, Ruth stood closer to him, and reached up to put her lips on his. He accepted her kiss, gently meeting her lips with his. The kiss was soft, and didn't last very long, but it was worth it.

"What was that for?" he asked.

"That was my way of thanking you. For caring about me."

"You've changed your tune, then."

"I realised today how much I didn't want to lose you."

"And I demonstrated to the whole world today how much you mean to me."

"Harry …... let's take care of ourselves, shall we? I don't want the next funeral I attend to be yours."

Harry looked down at her, his eyes burning darkly as they roamed over her face. "And I never want to attend yours, Ruth. At least, there's a fair chance you'll be attending mine some day, but hopefully not too soon."

"Hopefully." Ruth leaned against him, both her hands hooked around his elbow. She felt his lips against her hair.

"Come home with me, Ruth."

"Harry?"

"I don't mean for …... that …... although that might be nice. I don't want to be alone …... not after today. And if I'm being truthful, I don't want to let you out of my sight, in case someone else decides to abduct you."

"Harry …... is that wise?"

"No, it's not, but nor was giving away Albany. It doesn't work, you know."

"_What_?"

"Doesn't work, never did work, but I still committed treason."

"What will happen to you?"

"I have yet to be told, but it's likely I'll face suspension while they figure out what to do with me. They may even lock me up, and throw away the key."

"They can't."

"Just you watch them. Mace might not be around to hurt us, but there are plenty of others who want me out." He sighed heavily. "That's why I'd like you with me tonight. I don't know how much longer I have until they haul me in and use the thumbscrews on me."

"Of course I'll come home with you. Do you have your car? Will you drive?"

"I can still drive, Ruth. I don't have brain damage."

"What will happen to Lucas' body?"

"The Home Office has taken it. I doubt we'll even have a memorial service …... unless we hold something private on the sly. He broke all the rules, so he doesn't get a normal funeral."

"That's unfair. He was a victim of his time in prison."

"Perhaps." Harry shuddered, and Ruth put her arms around him, and rested her head on his shoulder. "Come on," he said, "let's go."

* * *

This was the first time Ruth had been inside Harry's house. It was a pleasant home, but it said little about the man who lived there.

"I'll make us something to eat," he said, hanging up his coat, and leaving his gloves on the hall table. He instructed Ruth to do the same, and then he showed her to the sitting room, and turned the gas fire on to high.

Ruth sat on the wide sofa, and slid off her shoes, so that she could feel the carpet under her feet. She wanted to _feel_, and she wanted to feel good. She was tired from always feeling afraid.

* * *

"Here you go," Harry said, placing a bowl of scrambled eggs in front of her, along with a fork and a spoon. "I don't know how you like to eat them."

"A fork is good," she replied.

They sat side by side on the sofa, eating their eggs in silence, apart from intermittent murmurs of approval and enjoyment. When he'd finished his, Harry sat back and patted his stomach. He'd removed his coat, jacket, tie and shoes, and undone the top two buttons of his shirt. When Ruth glanced at him, she liked what she saw …... a much more casual and accessible Harry.

When Ruth finished her eggs, Harry took their bowls back to the kitchen, and returned with two glasses of white wine.

"Why did you ask me back here, Harry? We've known one another for a long time …... and we've been ….. close for a long time, so why now?"

"I almost lost you today, Ruth. We almost lost one another. Instead of Maya and Lucas, it could easily have been Ruth and Harry who …... I don't want to …..."

"You don't want to waste any more time."

"That's right." Harry took a sip of his wine, his eyes on the fire across the room from where they sat, side by side. "And I don't know for how much longer we'll be free to do this …... to spend time alone together."

"Are you asking me to stay the night?"

"Yes, I am …... but not in the way you're thinking. You were drugged today. I was hit on the head. I don't think we should …...you know."

"I'm happy to sit here with you until bedtime, Harry. I can sleep here. The sofa is big enough for me."

"No, Ruth. I have a guest bedroom."

"I'm surprised you don't want me to sleep in your bed ….. with you."

Her words surprised him. Nothing should have surprised him about Ruth. She was always saying things which threw him, although mostly she blocked him and stopped him. Harry had learned to not set his hopes too high where Ruth was concerned.

"Of course, that's what I want, Ruth. I'm only human, but I didn't invite you back for that. I …... I'm not really sure -"

"You want to keep me safe. I think that's why you want me here with you. I'm happy for you to look after me tonight, Harry. I'm feeling quite tired. The doctor said it would take at least 24 hours for the anaesthetic to find it's way out of my body, and in that time I shouldn't be alone."

"Is that the only reason you're here, then?"

"No ….. of course not. I need to keep my eye on you, too. I don't want you going out to meet any more rogue agents …... and I never again want to hear you utter the words, `it's my turn'."

"You said it first."

"I know. It was an idiotic thing to have said. I put it down to the drug in my system. I'm sorry if I hurt you."

Harry took advantage of the moment, one which, depending on his fate, may never occur again. He did a quick assessment of the situation, and he thought the time was about right. He put his glass on the table in front of them, and took Ruth's glass from her hand, and placed that on the table next to his. He then leaned across, and put his fingers under Ruth's chin, lifting her face towards his, so that he could place a soft and loving kiss on her lips. She responded to him by slipping a hand around his neck, and murmuring into his mouth. He felt her fingers play with the curls on the back of his head, while the kiss continued for some time, but never became passionate. It was sweet and soft and tender. They were each after the comfort of another human form …... preferably one who cared about them.

"I just realised that white wine is probably the last thing you should be drinking on top of that anaesthetic."

"Mmm," Ruth murmured against his mouth. "That was nice."

"The kiss or the wine?"

"Both."

Harry pulled away from her, recognising that if he kissed her again, he'd not be able to pull away from her as easily, and he hadn't brought her back to his house for sex. It was still not the right time for them.

"Ruth …... I'm going upstairs to shower and change. I feel ….. grubby and gritty, and my clothes smell like death. Will you -"

"I'll be fine here, Harry. You go ahead. I'll enjoy sitting here where it's warm."

When Harry returned downstairs a half hour later – smelling wonderful, even if he did think so himself – Ruth had stretched out on the sofa, and was in a deep sleep. He sat in his chair and watched her in sleep, indulging in seeing her this way. After a few minutes of blatant voyeurism, he again went upstairs, and came back carrying two single-sized duvets. One of them he gently lay over Ruth as she slept, and after he'd turned out all the house lights other than the light above the cooker in the kitchen, a small lamp in the far corner of the sitting room, and the stairs light – in case Ruth awoke during the night – he arranged the other duvet around himself, as he settled in the larger of the two armchairs. This would not be the first time he'd slept in this chair, but it was the first time he would deliberately sleep in it, so that he would be close to the woman he loved while she slept.

To Harry, the equation was simple. Ruth needed him this night, and he needed her always. On this night, their combined needs intersected, and so his solution had been for them to spend the night together. This was not how he'd imagined they'd spend their first night together, but it was a good start. He had no cause for complaint that they were not sharing a bed, not making love. There was time for that, and they were slowly inching towards that. He could feel it.

At midnight, as the clock on the mantelpiece turned over to the next day, Harry slept, and dreamed of happier and more peaceful times ahead for he and Ruth. Notwithstanding his inevitable suspension, Harry believed that he and Ruth had earned a future together, and it would only be a matter of time before that happened for them.


	7. Chapter 7

**~ Tariq ~**

(early in 10.03)

* * *

Harry hadn't intended to go out in search of Ruth. She wasn't on the Grid, and nor was she on the roof. Next he walked along the embankment, giving himself forty-five minutes before he needed to be back on the Grid to inform the team about Tariq's funeral, and the memorial service on Friday. Then there was the search to find what he had uncovered that was important enough to have had him murdered.

He found her on their bench beside the Thames. She was so absorbed in watching a young mother with two little girls, both of whom wore red ribbons in their curly blond hair, that he almost turned away from her, and headed back to Thames House. He could only imagine that Ruth's inner dialogue at that moment would be something along the lines of her contemplating her lost opportunities.

Had she wanted a normal life, she should have stayed at GCHQ. Had she stayed at GCHQ they would never have met, and he wouldn't be in love with her, worrying about her at all times of the day and night. He had noticed that she was beginning to rebel against his need to either have her close to him at all times, or to send her out on errands in his stead. He could never tell her that he was doing his best to keep her safe, and with the body count on Section D mounting, he was doing everything he could to ensure her safety.

"Harry." he heard her say, "I hadn't expected to see you here. I was taking a break."

"A well deserved one. Do you mind if I sit down?"

Ruth slid over to make room for him, and he sat beside her, leaving a good distance between them. Ruth had not taken well the news that Sasha Gavrik was his son. Since he had told her, she had been cool and distant with him …... but he still had a very strong urge to protect her, and to do that, he had to stay near her.

"Do you need me back at the Grid, or is this about our post-death ritual?"

"I was wondering whether you might want to talk about Tariq."

It was as though he'd not spoken. He looked across at her, and her eyes were following the mother with her two little girls as they made their way along the embankment. One of the girls – the smallest one – was resisting having her hand held by her mother, while the older one was shrilly telling her sister to stop being a baby. Harry watched Ruth as a smile slowly changed her face from serious and severe to soft and peaceful.

"I was thinking …..." she said at last. "When I began working for MI-5 I never gave a thought to having children, or settling down with someone. Now – today, the day after one of our youngest and brightest has died so senselessly and tragically – all I can think about is how I wish I'd had children."

"It's not too late for that, Ruth."

"Well, I think it might be. One needs a man to have children, and I seem to be lacking in that department."

"Ruth …...I could -"

"Harry, don't ... please ... don't offer to give me children. That would be about as poorly timed as your proposal."

Harry sat back and exhaled heavily his frustration. He had no idea how to deal with Ruth these days. She was soft and reasonable one minute, and angry and bitter the next. Was he the one who'd made her that way, or was it the relentless death count? Perhaps it was George's death. Perhaps it was Elena Gavrik and her son being in London. Perhaps it was all of the above.

"I …... I wasn't going to. I just thought that maybe one day …... when things settle a bit - you know - we could ..."

"For how long have we been saying that? Things will never settle …... not while we both work for MI-5. We're both married to the job. How can we possibly commit to each other?"

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Ruth. I still hold out hope …... for us."

Ruth again said nothing in reply. She stared out at the river, her hands tucked into the pockets of her coat. It was cold out, and neither of them wore gloves.

"I killed him," she said at last. "I was responsible for Tariq being killed."

"That's just not true, Ruth. You were nowhere near him when he was killed."

"He was on the Grid working on face recognition, trying to identify the people who stole the briefcase from Calum, when I told him to go home. Had he kept working on the Grid, had he stayed there all night, he'd still be alive."

Harry turned to face her, and moved close enough to her to put his hand on her arm. She looked up at him sharply as his hand touched her, so he removed it, and pushed both his hands into his coat pockets, where he clenched them.

"Ruth …... that's not -"

"I told him to go home, and it was as a result of him working from home that he was targeted and killed."

"We don't know what happened, Ruth. You can't carry that kind of responsibility. It's not healthy."

"Here you are, preaching to me about what's healthy, and yet you carry secrets that are decades old. That can't be good for you, either."

"Now you're talking about Elena and Sasha, aren't you?"

"Among other things."

"I'm a spy, Ruth, and have been for over thirty years. Of course I carry secrets. Secrets are my stock in trade. You know that."

Ruth began to shake her head slightly, and she grimaced. She then turned towards him, and reached out her hand. He took his hand from his coat pocket, and grasped the hand she offered.

"Let's not fight," she said. "It makes me unhappy when we fight."

"Me too."

They sat for a long time, simply holding hands. After a few minutes, Harry turned to look at her, and as he did so, he turned his hand around so that their fingers became entwined. This way, she could not pull away from him as easily. He saw that as a metaphor for how he was holding her close to him while they worked together on the Grid. Of course, he needed her rational and practised eye, but he also needed to keep her near him. He kept telling himself that he was keeping her safe, but he also knew that he had rationalised his own behaviour in that way. He was keeping her close to him as they worked so that he'd never lose sight of her, so that he couldn't lose her …... as Tariq's family had just lost him. While Ruth was nearby - next to him, working with him, advising him - nothing bad could happen to her. He had lived through attacks and injuries which should have killed him many times over, but he'd survived. He was lucky - a man with more lives than a cat - so by keeping Ruth close, she would be lucky also. _ Wouldn't she?_

Harry began to feel content once more in Ruth's company. Her hand relaxed in his. This was how they were, how they should be. As he saw it, they could be together. All it needed was for the Russians to leave after the partnership agreement was signed, and then …...

_And then what, Harry? You'll propose to her again? And what will you do when she turns you down again? Kidnap her?_

"This is nice," she said at last, her voice little more than a sigh. "I enjoy it when we're like this."

"Mmm, me too."

"I'm sorry."

"For what, Ruth?"

"For jumping down your throat about giving me children."

Harry said nothing. He didn't know what to say, and anything he said would no doubt be the wrong thing.

"I'm already 41 years old, and you're …... how old are you?"

"I'm 57."

"Well, let's say we have a child in a year …... I'll be 42, and you'll be 58. When our child begins university, we'll be 60 and 76. When we drive him or her up to orientation week, everyone will think we're the grandparents."

"I'd be more concerned about the likelihood of people our age being able to conceive," he added.

"I know. So would I. It's a ridiculous idea. I'm just feeling sad that I didn't do something about it years ago …... that _we_ didn't."

"I know, Ruth."

_So did that mean it was already too late for them? There was more to being together than having __children._ Harry felt the beginnings of panic deep in his gut, and he needed a drink to quell the feeling. Pinning Ruth down to a decision about them was like trying to catch smoke. Outwardly he remained calm.

"Harry …."

"Yes?"

"Are you planning to see Elena again?"

"I don't think I should. It could be dangerous."

"Good."

"If I have to see her again, I might send you in my place."

When Ruth didn't reply, he decided to say nothing. Sometimes that was best. She still held his hand, so that must have meant something.

"I'll cry for Tariq tonight," Ruth said after a few minutes, "when I'm home on my own."

"That would be best," he replied. "Public tears are …..."

"Not befitting a MI-5 officer, nor a section head."

"No, they're not." Harry smiled down at her, but she was staring across the river.

"Will you?"

"Will I what?"

"Cry at home tonight."

"Probably," he said, but privately reasoned his tears would be for something more than another dead officer. He was almost immune to losing another one of his team. Almost. Like Ruth, he would grieve the loss of what he and Ruth could have had, had they not been afraid, had they not allowed Oliver Mace to drive them apart for almost three years, had they not misread the signals, had they not had such poor timing …... So many regrets, and Harry felt sad about them all.

He disengaged his hand from hers, and placed both his hands on his knees.

"Time to get back," he said.

"Shall I walk with you?"

"Thank you. That would be nice."

Harry and Ruth both stood, adjusted their coats, and side by side walked back to work. There was much they each needed to grieve which had not been allowed a voice, but they would grieve that when they arrived home – separately – that night.

* * *

_**A/N: To those who've been wondering, this is Ruth's last appearance in this story. There is one more chapter (and perhaps an AU follow-up epilogue, which is written, but I haven't yet decided whether to post - due to it probably being irrelevant to the original story) and my aim has been for there to be hope at the end - not that Ruth will return because she doesn't - but when you read it, you'll know what I mean. (And no, Harry doesn't meet another woman ...as if I'd do that!)**_


	8. Chapter 8

**~ Ruth ~**

(late in 10.06, between Harry visiting Ruth's cottage, and his return to the Grid.)

* * *

Harry heard a knock on his front door. He remained sitting in his armchair, a half-full bottle of whisky on the table beside him. At just after 7 pm, he was still sober, and he wasn't expecting visitors. No-one had said they were coming, and he had not invited anyone, so he decided to ignore his visitor.

And then they knocked again.

Hoping it was a sales person whom he could get rid of in a hurry, he put down his glass, and went to the door. On his doorstep was someone he hadn't seen in a while.

"Malcolm," he said, his voice husky from misuse.

"Harry …... can I come in?"

Harry opened the door wider, and stood aside for Malcolm to walk past him. He led him into the living room, showed him a chair to sit in, and took a clean glass from the sideboard.

"Drink?" Harry asked.

"Just a small one, thanks. I came here to talk."

"Oh."

Malcolm watched as Harry poured him a drink, and then both men sat in chairs opposite each other. Malcolm took a small sip before he spoke.

"I only found out about Ruth yesterday. I've been in Sweden for the past six weeks."

"Who was it told you?"

"Calum Reed. He'd left a message on my home phone for me to ring him urgently. Harry …... I can't tell you how sorry I am. I'm devastated by the news, so you must be …..."

"I'm shattered …... as you can see."

Malcolm could see. Although Harry was quite well dressed, in clean jeans and a jumper, it appeared he had not shaved in several days, his normally trim hair had not been cut or combed for some time, and his eyes were bloodshot, indicating he had been crying and/or drinking too much. Probably both. He also wore nothing on his feet – not even socks – and in this weather, he was risking hypothermia.

"I'm on a liquid diet," Harry said. "It's easier to digest."

Malcolm coughed politely before he spoke. "I have some takeaway Chinese food in the car. I didn't want to walk into your house with it …... for fear you'd be offended. I can get it if you'll join me in eating it."

Harry nodded, his jaw set, his eyes sadder than any eyes Malcolm had ever seen.

"I'll get it then, shall I?" When Harry didn't object, Malcolm rose and went outside to bring in two carry bags of food.

"There's enough there for a week, Malcolm," Harry said as he put plates and forks on to the kitchen table, while Malcolm took the tubs of Chinese food out of the bags, and removed the lids so that they could see what was on offer.

"I had no idea of your preferences, or even whether you enjoy this kind of food."

"Given my shape, you can bet that I enjoy my food."

"So when did you last eat?"

"Sit down, Malcolm," Harry said, indicating a chair. "I can't remember when I last ate. I know I ate something at the pub after Ruth's funeral. I also remember that I brought it up again once I got home."

"That was ….?"

"A week ago. A week ago yesterday."

The two men sat and ate quietly, only commenting on the food.

"That's the best fried rice I've eaten in a while," Harry said.

Malcolm has also brought wine, and they sipped the sauvignon blanc in appreciation, as they each tried a few spoonfuls from each of the tubs.

"Try the sweet chilli chicken, Harry. It's mouth-watering."

Harry hadn't been aware of his hunger, so consumed had be been by grief, a grief he'd fed with alcohol and the occasional slice of buttered toast. In those first horrific days after Ruth had died in his arms, he'd shut himself in his house, and sat in his sitting room with a bottle of single malt. When he'd finished the first bottle, he'd walked down to the off license for another one, and in that way the days had passed him by until the day of Ruth's funeral. On that awful day, Calum had called to collect him, and had driven him there, sat beside him in the church, babysat him at the pub afterwards, and driven him home again. He'd barely spoken to anyone, and most people hadn't known what to say to him, mere words of condolence sounding hollow. He couldn't even remember who had given the reading. All he knew was that he'd sat at a funeral and Ruth wasn't beside him, and that made everything in his life wrong.

During the forty-eight hours after Ruth's funeral, he had seriously contemplated taking his own life, something he had never before considered. He knew that he still had some life of his own to live, perhaps grandchildren to meet, but in those darkest of dark hours, all he'd wanted was to be with her, wherever she was. He'd had no idea how he'd be able to live any kind of a life without her. Had he had a guarantee that by killing himself he'd be reunited with her, he would have gone ahead and done it …... but there were no such guarantees.

"I've been thinking a lot about the time I told Ruth that I was happy about the two of you going out to dinner together," Malcolm said, munching on a dim sum. "Perhaps had I not -"

"Don't, Malcolm. I think Ruth would have found a way to avoid being with me back then. She was private and shy, especially then. I wanted to shout from the rooftops that she'd agreed to go out with me, but she was …..."

"Cautious. Careful"

"Yes. Perhaps we were never meant to be."

"I'm sorry I wasn't at the funeral, Harry. I didn't know, and I was out of communication with all of you. Had I known I would have flown straight home."

Harry began to feel a little better as the conversation between he and Malcolm flowed more easily, and his belly welcomed the food. He hadn't realised how hungry he was until he began eating. With his immediate physicals needs being met, Harry found it easier to talk about Ruth. He _needed_ to talk about her.

* * *

"Ruth had put in an offer on a house in Suffolk," Harry said at last, once he and Malcolm were sitting across from one another, beside the fire in the sitting room, having opened the second bottle of wine, a cabernet sauvignon. "Only minutes before she died, she asked me to live there with her. She wanted us to both leave the service, and live there."

"And your answer was?"

"Yes. My answer was yes. I was so astounded that she'd asked me that all I could do was smile at her and nod. It's what I've wanted for a long time. Five days ago I visited the house. The estate agent began to show me through, but …... I couldn't, Malcolm. I couldn't buy it."

"Why not?"

"It was hers. Everything about it reminded me of her …... from the peeling green paint on the front door, to the kitchen and dining room overlooking the garden. I could see us in that garden together on a summer afternoon. We'd be sitting at a table sipping wine, and discussing what we'd cook for dinner that night. How could I possibly live there alone, knowing she was meant to share it with me? She'd told me there were two bedrooms - one was to be ours, and the smaller bedroom was to be my office. There were echoes of her everywhere. I couldn't bear to be there without her. It was never meant to be like that."

"So buy it anyway. You don't have to live in it …... not yet."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because in time you'll need some part of her to keep. You had no children, you never married, you only have all those years you worked together. At least the house represents the future you were planning to have. Ruth planned for you to live there together. Harry, if you don't buy it, I will."

Malcolm put down his glass, and looked at Harry, his face serious, his eyes pinning Harry down.

"There will come a time …... maybe not soon, but the time _will_ come, when you will crave being in that house. When you retire, you will long to be there, to live the life you planned with her. The big difference will be that she won't be with you, but …... you can honour her life by living there. You can live her dream for her." Malcolm again picked up his glass, and took a sip. "At least think about it. If, in three weeks, you still don't want it, then I'll buy it."

"Why would you do that?"

"For when you miss her so much that you want to retire for the night in the room where you were planning to sleep together. You won't always be this raw, Harry. There'll come a time when you will be grateful for the opportunity to live amongst your memories of her. More cab sav?"

Malcolm poured more red wine into Harry's glass, and for the first time in fifteen days, Harry began to believe that there may be life after Ruth. It's just that it wouldn't be the life they'd planned, nor would it be the life he'd wanted. He'd ring the estate agent tomorrow, and he'd drive up to Suffolk and take another look at the cottage.

"Are you free tomorrow, Malcolm? I thought I'd have another look at the house. If you come with me, you can give me a shove when I get scared, and want to run away again."

"I'd like that. Yes, I think that's a good idea. At least, it's a plan, and that's a start."

The two men sat in front of the fire, and polished off the cabernet sauvignon, and after that, Harry opened a bottle of Cabernet Shiraz.

At 11.30 pm, Harry suggested Malcolm stay the night in the guest bedroom, which he did. Better that than driving under the influence, and risking being picked up by the police.

In the morning, Malcolm went downstairs to find Harry cooking breakfast. When he turned around to greet him, Malcolm noticed that Harry had shaved, and that he'd combed his hair. For once, Malcolm Wynn-Jones was relieved that he'd stepped over the line and visited Harry at such a difficult time in his life. He could see that Harry was lonely and grief-stricken, but he'd needed reminding that just because Ruth's life had ended, it didn't mean that his had to end as well.

And if he looked especially closely, Malcolm could see the beginnings of hope in Harry's eyes. It was then that Malcolm knew Harry would make it …... he would get through this. Right now, he may not want to go on, but he must. He would go on for Ruth, he would begin to live again for her. She would want him to do that. He would get out of bed each morning for her …... to honour and respect her life, and the love they'd shared, albeit secretly.

And then one morning some time in the future, Harry would wake up in the bed he had expected to share with Ruth, and realise that this morning he was at last prepared to live for himself.

* * *

**_A/N: Thanks to all who have followed this story, and to those who have taken time out to review. This was where I planned to end this story, but there is an epilogue which I'll put up in a day or so. Technically, it is not a hidden scene, as it is set some months after this chapter, thus making it AU, and it follows on from this chapter._**


	9. Epilogue

_**A/N: Since this chapter is beyond the canon story, I have allowed myself to write something which may have happened, but given the way 10.06 ended, probably never would have.**_

* * *

**~ Epilogue ~**

(10 months later)

* * *

Each morning after he awoke, he performed the same small rituals. He'd look around the room, and remember where he was. He was in Ruth's house in Suffolk. He'd even had a brass name-plate made for the wall at the front of the house, the words "Ruth's Cottage" inscribed in the metal. He had a vague plan for writing down the story of how he came to buy this cottage, and to name it "Ruth's Cottage". He wanted future owners of this place to know his and Ruth's story. He wanted the owners of this cottage in a 100 years time to know about Ruth. He'd not given her children for her to leave behind, so this cottage would be her legacy. It was when he glanced at the other side of the bed, that his overnight dreams of being with her clashed with the reality that she was not there, and that she would never live with him in this house, the house she had chosen as their retirement home. Then he'd remember the photograph on the table on his side of the bed, and he'd turn his head to gaze at her image, which, apart from the house, was all he had left of her.

Despite the disappointment he woke to each morning, he was glad that Malcolm had pushed him into buying the cottage – Ruth's cottage. Without it, he would most likely still be living in London, still working for MI-5, still drinking himself into a stupor each night, and while he couldn't lay claim to being happy, he lived his life with a degree of dignity and purpose which ten months ago he'd not have believed possible.

In those first difficult weeks after Ruth's death, creating plans for the house, and for his life after retirement, had occupied his waking hours, and so by the time he left MI-5 and moved to Suffolk, he had a sense that he was living his life, rather than filling his days until it was his turn to die. He was about to turn 59, the love of his life had died, but there _was_ life after Ruth …... it's just that it wasn't quite the post-MI-5 life he'd planned, and Ruth was only free to share it in the field of his imagination.

And living his life without Ruth didn't mean that he had stopped loving her, nor did it mean that he didn't miss her every day. His last thoughts as he fell asleep were always of her, just as his first waking thought each morning was to bring her image into his mind's eye. He had found a way to live his life for himself, and thus far it was working for him. He had made friends, and he had a ritual of meeting his friends for drinks, for dinner at the pub, and for helping umpire cricket matches for the village team. He'd also joined the gun club, although he was not sure for how long he'd want to keep messing around with firearms after his long stint with the secret service.

Two months after he'd moved to Suffolk, Sue and Denis, his friends from the neighbouring village, had invited him to a dinner party to meet some people of his own age. Early in the evening it was clear to him that the quite attractive woman seated to his left was single, and with him being single, they were expected to hook up. Deciding to act in a way which wouldn't embarrass, Harry drove the woman home, and explained on the way that he was not available, the woman he loved having died only five months earlier. Next day he rang Sue, and explained the situation to her. The word spread around the community, and to his relief, from then on there had been no further attempts to pair him with anyone.

He read a lot, he had Malcolm stay occasionally, and one weekend during summer he'd even entertained Calum, Erin and Dimitri, and Erin's daughter, Rosie, the four of them having stayed in the pub, since there was only one spare bed in his office. He had taken a couple of trips to continental Europe, but had come home early each time. He'd wanted Ruth to be with him so badly that he couldn't enjoy himself. There were limitations in his life, all of them as a result of Ruth having died before they could have a life together. Harry knew it unlikely he'd ever love again. Ruth had been his one true love, and he was thankful every day for having known her and loved her, and that she had loved him, if only ever from a safe distance.

One positive outcome of his retirement was that he'd made inroads into his relationship with his son, and that he'd been able to see more of each of his children. He had only mentioned to them briefly that he had lost someone he cared about. He hadn't wanted their sympathy, and he hadn't wished to embarrass them, or to divide their loyalties. He'd invited both Catherine and Graham for Saturday lunch. He'd roasted a chicken, and had even managed to roast some vegetables without burning them. Since lumpy gravy was one of his pet hates, he'd bought the gravy ready made.

When he heard car doors slamming, he went to the front door – the one with the peeling green paint – and opened it to greet his two adult children. Very briefly, he remembered the painful conversation between Ruth and he at the time of Tariq's death, and how Ruth had been grieving the loss of the children she'd never have. Without his bidding, he felt tears spring into his eyes. He already had two children, but somehow he had overlooked the probability that Ruth might want children. What had be been thinking? How had he not seen that earlier? He'd known she was in love with him, so why hadn't they had that particular conversation years earlier? He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper before he looked into the eyes of his daughter.

"Dad …... what's wrong? Are you okay? Here ….. let me give you a hug."

Harry willingly stepped into his daughter's embrace. Living alone, without anyone close in his life, he'd missed the contact of other people, not that he'd had much of that while he'd been working. The buzz, the excitement, the adrenalin rush of the job, had all served to act as a substitute for close human contact. Now that he was away from that, and that Ruth was gone, and with her the promise of close contact with another warm body, he found he craved holding someone close to him. It surprised Harry when he held on to his daughter, not wanting to let her go.

"Are you alright, Dad?" Catherine said into his shoulder.

"I'm fine," Harry replied, reluctantly pulling away from her. "I miss you, that's all."

Harry looked up to see his son standing awkwardly by, not sure how he should greet his father. Without over-thinking it, Harry grabbed Graham by the upper arms, and pulled him into a quick embrace, slapping his hand on his son's back …... something men did when they embraced.

"I'm glad you came, Graham."

"Likewise."

Inside the house, Catherine noticed a large photograph on the wall in the living room. When Harry sat in his favourite chair by the fireplace, whether he was reading or watching TV, he could glance up at that photo on the wall.

"Is that -?" Catherine asked, pointing to the photo of Harry and Ruth, taken when they were not aware Malcolm had been sneaking around the Grid with a camera. They had been deep in conversation, and when neither were speaking, they'd each grabbed a glance at the other, and the camera had captured a private moment between the two of them, their heads leaning towards the other.

"Yes," Harry said, "that's Ruth. It was taken a few years ago …... before she had to go into exile. We were unaware it was being taken."

"That photograph speaks a thousand words."

"Yes, it does."

"She was lovely, Dad,"

"Yes …. she is."

"She was a looker," Graham chipped in. "Whatever did she see in you?"

"I've no idea," Harry replied. "I guess it was my natural charm."

Catherine smiled, knowing that her father did have a charming side, although it had been missing these past months.

"Do you have any other pictures of her?"

"Yes. Malcolm took a few, and others ….. those I worked with …... had taken a number of photographs over the years. My staff had them enlarged and framed, and they gave them to me as a retirement gift. I have them all over the house. There's one of Ruth and me on the kitchen wall. It was taken at a Christmas party a few years ago, and there's even one in the bathroom, next to the mirror. My favourite photo of Ruth is in my bedroom, beside my bed. I see it first thing when I wake up."

Thinking about Ruth, remembering her was one thing, but talking about her in this way was another. Harry felt his eyes tear up, and he excused himself, stating the roast required his attention.

"I think it's called basting," he said, as he quickly left the room, his eyes down.

"Do you think he's alright?" Graham whispered to his sister.

"Not really. He's still grieving, but I read somewhere that those who lose someone have a need to talk about the one they lost, so I think we should just let him be. He's strong, Graham. He'll make it."

"I've never seen him like this."

"You haven't seen much of him since you were in your teens, since before he knew Ruth. I noticed a change in him once I saw him again after he'd met her. At the time, I believed him to be putting on an act, but he was genuinely softer and more caring. That's how love can change a man."

"Will you tell him today?"

"I have to, don't I? I can't leave it any longer."

* * *

Lunch was a triumph. Graham and Harry had seconds, and Catherine ate everything on her plate, something she almost never did.

"Does anyone want wine? Catherine?"

"I have to drive, Dad, and Graham -"

"I don't much like wine," Graham answered for himself. "Besides, I have to work tonight. My uni fees won't pay themselves."

"You know that I can help you -"

"_Dad _…." Graham's voice only partially hid his exasperation. "I have to do this my way. I can handle it. I only work three nights a week, and the pay is good."

Harry nodded, recognising that he'd stepped over a line.

"There's something I have to tell you, Dad," Catherine said.

"Good news, I hope."

"Yes …... very good. In six months you're to be a grandfather. I'm three months pregnant."

Harry stopped pouring wine into his own glass, his mouth still open.

"I hope you're pleased."

"I am," Harry said, smiling. "This is very good news. But -"

"I suppose you're curious about the father."

"Yes …. I am. Do I know him?"

"You haven't met him yet, although I've known him for almost two years. We …... began as friends, and then it grew into something more."

"Doe she have a name?"

"Yes. His name's Simon."

Harry smiled to himself.

"What?"

"I had a driver at work called Simon. I hope it's not him. He was particularly …... active with women. Not exactly the faithful type."

"There is more than one Simon in the world, Dad."

"I know." Harry sighed, realising that he had been spending far too much time alone, and was losing the art of making normal conversation. Most of his conversations were with Ruth, and they took place inside his head. "Do you love him? Is he a good man? Does he treat you well?"

"Yes to all. He's in Canada for a couple of weeks. He's checking out a story. You should be able to meet him soon."

"Am I saying too much by asking whether you plan getting married?"

"Yes, you are, but you are my father, so I suppose you have the right to be asking awkward questions. The answer is we haven't decided, but we've been living together since we found out I was pregnant."

"But -"

"Dad – that's enough of the interrogating. Now …... about you. How are you _really_?"

"I'm surviving, Catie, and my life is as good as it can be, given …..."

"You miss her, don't you?"

"More than I have the words to describe it, but …... my life is tolerable, all things considered, and I have friends who care about me, I have you and Graham, and now …..."

"Now you have something new to look forward to."

"Yes, I do. Thank you …... thank you both. I know I haven't been very present, especially these last months."

"We'll try to see more of you, won't we, Graham?"

"Sure," said Graham.

When Catherine and Graham left for London later in the afternoon, Harry stood at his front gate and watched as they drove away. If he was being honest, being alone in the cottage again meant that he could again talk aloud to Ruth, imagining for a time that she was with him, having just stepped into another room, or sliding into bed beside him in the dark, or standing behind him while he prepared a meal, laughing at how carefully he sliced carrots. _I once almost sliced the top of my finger off, so of course I'm being careful,_ he'd say aloud. He'd talk to her while he washed the dishes, telling her about his day. He spoke to her each morning as he lay in bed, just after he'd woken, sharing with her his plans for that day. He needed to talk to her just as much as he required air to breathe. His `conversations' with Ruth was something he kept secret from others, other than Malcolm, who had, while staying one weekend, overheard him talking aloud to Ruth.

"Don't be embarrassed," Malcolm had said, after he'd entered the kitchen late at night for a drink of water, and Harry had been sitting at the dining table in the dark, talking aloud to Ruth, telling her how much he missed her.

"I'm not crazy, you know."

"I know you're not. You're the sanest man I know. In your situation, I'd be doing the same thing."

"I do know that she's dead. I'm not delusional."

"I know that, too."

"It's just that I miss her so much."

"I know you do. Do you think she can hear you?"

Harry had sighed, reluctant to talk about his one-sided conversations with Ruth. "I have no idea, but there are times when I can feel her presence in the room with me. Sometimes …... I'll wake suddenly during the night, and I can feel …... her ….. lying against my back. I can feel her ... pressed against me, which is strange, since we never slept together."

Malcolm stayed silent, taking in the information that Harry and Ruth had had a celibate relationship. As he saw it, that was testament to Harry's deep regard for Ruth, since in the past, his relationships with women had begun with sex, and developed from there.

"I ….. just need to believe she's here," Harry continued. "I need to believe she misses me as much as I miss her. Maybe I'm making it all up, but I don't think so."

"I've heard similar stories …... from others whose loved ones have died."

Soon he'd have to curtail his open conversations with her. Soon he'd have a grandchild, and he'd be asked to babysit. Soon he'd have to be living fully in the present, and not in the past.

Soon …... but not yet.

For now, he climbed the stairs to his office, turned on his computer, and began web-surfing for designs for cribs, nursing chairs, and rocking horses. There'd been a time when he was rather handy, but his job had allowed no spare time for such creative indulgences.

"Okay Ruth," he said aloud. "You can help me choose which one you think my grandchild will like. There's work to be done."

_Fin_

* * *

_**A/N: Thank you to all who have read to the end, and for all the reviews.**_


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